


Flawed

by springsdandelion (writergirlie)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirlie/pseuds/springsdandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Capitol inflicted its scars on Katniss, but Peeta loves her all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flawed

_I’m a train wreck in the morning_

_I’m a bitch in the afternoon_

_Every now and then, without warning_

_I can be really mean towards you_

_I’m a puzzle, yes indeed_

_Ever complex in every way_

_And all the pieces aren’t even in the pie_

_And yet…_

_You see the picture clear as day_

_I don’t know why you love me_

_And that’s why I love you_

_Catch me when I fall_

_Accept me, flaws and all_

_That’s why I love you_

_\-- “Flaws And All” (Beyonce)_

 

I forget all about it until the cat reminds me.

 

The days and weeks since I came back to District 12 have all blended together for me into one indistinguishable blur; seasons shift seamlessly from one to the other before my very eyes, but I’m unable to fully process their transitions, to understand what it all means: that time is still ticking—still moving of its own accord, regardless of whether or not I choose to go along with it. Get left behind at your own risk, I guess.

 

So when I hear Buttercup scratching his paw against my bedroom door and follow it up with an insistent purr moments later when I don’t pay him any mind, it’s with great annoyance that I throw the damn thing wide open so I can rail at him—until I catch sight of him and it stops me dead in my tracks. It takes a few seconds for my brain to register what I’m actually seeing: him looking utterly ridiculous with a green satin ribbon tied in an elaborate bow around his neck. And when the absurdity of the image does finally hit my synapses, it sends me into a fit of unexpected and uncontained laughter. He’s offended, of course; everything I do offends him, but he takes special exception to me having a joke at his expense. He releases an indignant hiss, and that's when I notice that there’s a tag that's dangling from his neck. I reach down to untie the ribbon and see the familiar slanted handwriting on the small slip of ivory-colored cardstock that was fastened onto the ribbon. The elegant loops in glossy dark blue ink could only be produced by someone whose hands bear the nuanced talent of a painter.

 

_Katniss,_

_Happy Birthday… Follow the cat for your surprise._

_Peeta_

 

I hate surprises.

 

But I can’t help but be touched that Peeta would go to all this trouble, and I find myself cracking a smile. Still, it’s with great trepidation that I follow the stupid cat down the hallway. I’m grateful I had the presence of mind, at least, to change from my nightgown and into a shirt and pants that I pull at random from the closet, just in case there are other people in the house. And the chances of it are pretty good, if the not-so-subtle noises coming from downstairs are any indication. I brace myself for the coming assault. Gratitude is much more becoming than surliness, I hear.

 

I’m still pulling on my boots, hoping I don’t trip on the rug, when I spy movement down below. For a second, I’m tempted to stay where I am, but Buttercup hisses at me again and I decide I’d better go ahead with it anyway. They’re probably all waiting for me.

 

I’ve barely stepped off last stair when I hear a small chorus of “Surprise!” Peeta, Haymitch, Greasy Sae, and Sae’s granddaughter are all gathered at the foot of the staircase, in varying states of merriment: Peeta, greeting me with an understated smile that I’m sure he hopes will appease me after this bold gesture of his; Greasy Sae and her granddaughter looking positively giddy and looking almost as ridiculous as Buttercup did minutes before, in their sparkly, cone-shaped hats that must have originated from the Capitol; and Haymitch, looking downright miserable, holding a glass in one hand and pulling at his collar with the other. Greasy Sae must have insisted that he button his shirt all the way to the top button, as Effie might have, and it’s undoubtedly choking him.

 

“I told them this was a bad idea,” he slurred. Of course that isn’t orange juice in his glass. Right about now, I’m kind of tempted to ask him for a bit of whatever it is, but instead, I give a smile that’s only half-forced.

 

This was a nice thing to do, after all. And I really should learn to accept nice things that are done for me. It’s the only way to dig my way out of this dark, airless pit I’ve been trapped in, and if I stay any longer inside of it, I’m liable to suffocate altogether. At least, this is what Dr. Aurelius keeps telling me. And he does have some expertise in the matter.

 

“You can kick us out after you have some cake,” Peeta says, grinning at me.

 

I can’t help but grin back. “Well,” I say, “I guess I should have some if you went to all the effort.”

 

“Atta girl,” Greasy Sae says, before hiccupping. Maybe she’s had a bit of what Haymitch is having, too.

 

This can hardly be considered a nutritious breakfast, but it takes my breath away all the same. Peeta’s really outdone himself this time. It’s not a big cake—we’re not exactly a big crowd, and had the cake been any larger, it would have resulted in a lot of waste—but the intricate frosting work is nothing short of stunning. Peeta has managed to recreate a replica of a forest on the surface of the cake: trunks made of rolled dark chocolate and delicate leaves shaped out of fondant and dyed a deep emerald hue. There’s even a small lake, perfectly rendered, with at least fifteen different shades of blue and silver blending together to give the illusion of calm water on a lazy summer’s day.

 

One day, we’ll have to continue those swimming lessons we began long ago, once summer is upon us again.

 

I still haven’t let the air out of my lungs when I hear Haymitch chortle. “I guess it’s a good sign that she’s not spewing profanities at us for taking over her house like this.”

 

“I haven’t ruled it out yet,” I counter, though my words lose some of the effect, I’m sure, since they’re accompanied by the reluctant smile on my face. My gaze falls to the cake again, then I raise my eyes to look at Peeta. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

 

“Happy Birthday, Katniss.”

 

True to their word, they begin to clear out once I’ve sliced into the cake—with great regret, given how exquisite it is—and everyone’s had a piece. I even give in and let them sing Happy Birthday to me, Haymitch surprisingly in tune and possessing a hidden talent, it seems. They leave, one by one, wishing me a happy day one more time, and I sit down at the kitchen table to admire what’s left of the cake. I did my best to cut around the forest so I could preserve as much of  it as I could, and I managed to leave the lake fully intact, to my great relief. I’m still fingering the wick on the candle when I realize not everyone has left. When I turn behind me, I see Peeta still standing at the door, his hand closed around the handle, watching me.

 

He straightens, as though coming out of a reverie and realizing that I’m looking at him too, and a furious blush begins to spread across his cheeks. I have to smile at the sight of it.

 

“You don’t have to leave,” I say. “Stay.” After a moment, I add softly, “Please…”

 

He smiles and crosses the distance between us, pulling out a chair and sitting down beside me. He’s having a hard time meeting my eyes, and for second, I can’t help but be reminded of the shy boy who used to avoid my gaze, who I’d find staring at me from across a crowded schoolyard, only to tear his eyes away and look in the other direction the minute I stared back at him.

 

“Tell me the truth,” he says. “You’re not mad at me for doing this, are you?”

 

“Only a little.”

 

There’s a small panic that sets in his features, until I laugh and nudge him with my shoulder.

 

“I’m just joking,” I say. “This was really sweet of you. Look, I’m not going to lie—I hate surprises. But this was… not so bad. It was even nice.”

 

He smiles, finally looking me in the eye. “Good. I’m glad.” He watches me absently fiddling with the candle, then says, “Did you make a wish?”

 

The question flusters me all too easily.

 

“Yes.”

 

Not only is he looking me in the eye now, but his gaze is intense, in that way that sometimes makes me forget to breathe. I’m scared for a second that he’s going to ask me what I wished for—or worse, that he’s guessed what it is or knows it has to do with him, but instead, he only says, “I hope it comes true.”

 

The air feels very thin all of a sudden. Mildly intoxicating, leaving me a little light-headed. And I know it’s not just my imagination when I see that the distance between me and Peeta is shrinking, growing ever smaller until I can feel his warm breath on my face, and I start to close my eyes, feeling his long eyelashes brush against mine…

 

_Splat!_

 

A sickening noise makes me come out of my skin, and I turn around to see that Buttercup has pounced on the table, knocking over the cake. It’s landed on the kitchen floor, frosting all over my tiles, and I feel tears spring to my eyes immediately as I lunge at the cat.

 

He’s too quick for me, though, leaping away to safety.

 

“You foul little beast!”

 

“It’s all right, we can clean it up-”

 

I start to give chase, but slip on some frosting and slam onto the edge of the table—hard. It knocks the wind out of me, and pain immediately shoots up my flank when I straighten and attempt a breath.

 

“Katniss, you’re hurt...”

 

“I’m fine-” But I lose all credibility when the words dissolve into a hiss, and my hand flies automatically to my ribs. I’m pretty sure they’re on fire.

 

Peeta’s hand gently pushes mine away and he begins to feel around the area I was just probing. I suck in air through my teeth as he’s doing this. He notices immediately and mutters, “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to see if-”

 

“They’re not broken. Probably just a bad bruise.”

 

“All the same, can’t hurt to have a second opinion.” Then he adds with a smile, “Even if I’m not a healer.”

 

I start to laugh, but immediately regret it; the tenderness in my left side has grown into an insistent throbbing now, radiating throughout my entire torso. I wince as I slowly sink back down onto a chair. Peeta crouches down beside me, setting one knee on the ground—the one on his bad leg, since his prosthetic can only handle so much weight on it before he starts to feel his thigh fatigue. He’s watching me carefully, and I can almost see my pain reflected in his face.

 

“We should really have a look at it,” he says. I realize his fingers are at the hem of my shirt, waiting for my permission to push it up over my waist.

 

“Are you sure you aren’t just looking for some excuse to see me half naked?” I say. It’s meant to be a joke, but I’m off in the delivery—the pain kind of throws things off a little—and this probably just reinforces in his mind how “pure” I am. Ok, so maybe he wasn’t so far off from the truth when he made that particular observation.

 

He grins. “First things first.”

 

In spite of myself, I smile, even as I feel heat rising in my face. He starts to lift up my shirt, but looks to me again before he goes any further, and I nod. I can’t help but shudder a little bit as his fingers make contact with my bare skin, but he seems too preoccupied to notice, for which I’m grateful. His face contorts momentarily when he’s finally got full view of the injury, then he raises his eyes once more.

 

“That’s a nasty one, all right,” he says. “Good thing purple suits you.”

 

“Oh good, just what I was hoping for on my birthday. A big, ugly bruise.”

 

He laughs, though he has the decency to keep it restrained, out of deference. “No permanent damage, though. Not that I can detect, anyway.”

 

“I’ll have to trust your assessment, Dr. Mellark.”

 

The air’s grown thin again. Silent. I can hear our breathing, and it seems to fill the entire space of the kitchen. His fingers linger on my skin, then I feel the mood shift when his thumb finds something particularly of interest, a small indentation just under my rib cage, where a bullet once hit—not quite penetrating, but doing enough damage nevertheless to make me lose a spleen. His brows come together in a tight line across his forehead as he fans over the mark with his thumb, then I see him take a deep, shaky inhale and let the air out slowly and deliberately.

 

It’s quiet for a long time, then he says, “I should have been there for you.” There’s pain in his voice, palpable and it knifes at me. “You needed me.”

 

“I was under morphling,” I say, as if this would be of any comfort to him. I realize, just after they leave my mouth, how stupid the words must sound. “And anyway, you were… well, not yourself.”

 

Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and he turns his head slightly, his jaw clenching, as though he’s using every effort to keep them from spilling. And I immediately wish I had some sort of filter on me. Will I ever stop saying the wrong thing when I mean something entirely different? After all this time, I still haven’t learned what comes so naturally to Peeta.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. His voice wavers ever so slightly, but I pick up on it. “I’d give anything to be able to take that all back.”

 

I reach down my hand to stroke his hair, brush away a lock from his forehead. “I know.”

 

He looks up at me, as though taken aback by the gentleness in my touch. As though expecting the harsh, callous Katniss who’d turned her back on him when he was first struggling with the aftereffects of his hijacking. He’s not the only one who’d give anything to take some things back.

 

Our eyes lock onto one another’s, leaving both of us at our most raw, our most vulnerable. And suddenly, I’m not afraid anymore to have him see me as I truly am. Flawed. Because if he’s going to love me, then he has to love all that I am. Imperfections and all.

 

I take hold of the hem of my shirt and pull the whole thing over my head, casting it aside. His eyes widen in surprise, looking at me questioningly. I make no attempt to cover my torso. Burn scars run the length of my abdomen and wrap around my back, not as pronounced as they were just after the initial trauma, but not even the new skin grafts I was given can hide the fact that I’m damaged. I could have had more grafts put on—more polishing done, more surgeries, more alterations. The Capitol offered—and probably would have done it anyway without my permission, if Haymitch hadn’t stepped in—but I chose to leave everything as is. I wanted a permanent reminder of what happened. All the losses I will never truly get over. Everything I hold them accountable for, the Capitol and District 13 alike.

 

Peeta skims over the scars with his hands, feeling the rough texture they leave behind and following the haphazard pattern they form. His fingers travel up my sides, trace my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, coming to rest on the spot where my heart is. When his motion stills, I see the tears start to well up in his eyes. They’re not tears of pity, though—I wouldn’t receive his pity, anyway—but rather, of anger. Resentment. Pain over the damage the Capitol left in its wake.

 

I can’t tell whether he’s disgusted by the sight of it all. I pray he isn’t.

 

As if feeling the weight of my stare, he looks up at me, his hands coming up to cradle my face, then he pulls me into him, kissing me, threading his fingers through my hair.  “You’re beautiful,” he says.

 

The words reverberate in my mouth, and I close my eyes to taste them, swallow them, let them fill me. I want so badly to believe they’re true.

 

“I won’t ever be the same again,” I say. My voice breaks against my will. “I’m not the same Katniss you fell in love with.”

 

“No, you’re not. But I’m not the same Peeta, either.”

 

He’s right, of course. The events of the last few years have marred us, left their scars, but when the smoke all cleared, we still found our way back to each other. Still finding a way to defy the Capitol, after everything it has tried to do to break us.

 

A long time ago, I thought that admitting I loved Peeta would mean letting the Capitol win. That I was giving them what they wanted. But now I understand that they had nothing to do with any of it. That they may have brought us together by circumstance, but they did their best to drive a wedge between us, too—and we grew back together, despite their best efforts. And these scars they’ve inflicted, the ones that will be my constant reminder of how they tried to destroy us, only make him love me more, and I him.

 

Flaws and all.


End file.
